If you’ve ever wanted to send David Feherty a question or comment, here’s your chance! David is putting down his mike to answer your E-mails in his mailbag column for GOLFONLINE.
Click here to send him your best question or comment. (Note: Letters may be edited for clarity and length).
I have recently noticed a few players on the tour wearing very nice shirts that don’t have collars. I’m sure you are aware that some country clubs require all players to wear shirts with collars. I have also heard Greg Norman, 10 or 15 years ago, putting a dig into the PGA for not allowing the players to wear shorts especially during very hot weather. What are your thoughts on the dress code, and its evolvement on the PGA Tour. —Bill Greene, Mechanicsburg, PA
David Duval was the first player to wear un-collard shirts a few years back. Since then, turtle necks have crept into the permissible sartorial envelope and the necklines have niggled down ever so slightly. Personally, I like it. Most of the guys are in good enough shape to look fine with or without a collar as long as it remains tasteful. If it ever gets down to low plunging mesh or sheer nylon jump suits unzipped to the scrotum, we may have to go to uniforms.
I am in a dilemma (or am I having a dilemma, which would be a dilemma in and of itself). Having a name that sounds similar to your’s, especially when spoken by your television co-horts, I feel compelled to voice my opinion during golf broadcasts. The problem is the only one who will listen to me is the dog. How do I get him to stop howling? —David Heraty, Chicago, IL
David (If indeed David is your real name),
First let’s clear up this dilemma crap. Being “in” or “having” a dilemma is the same thing, you pinhead. If you’re in a dilemma as to whether or not you’re actually in a dilemma, you’re plugged in a conundrum. Drop yourself out under penalty and play frickin’ on.
I have some suggestions on how to unburden yourself of the problems resulting from the name thing:
- Teach the dog to talk. He may be howling because your observations are idiotic and that’s just his way of communicating his disagreement with you. Or alternatively, the pitch of your voice may simply be too high for humans to hear.
- Get other dogs in the neighborhood to listen to you as well. If they all start howling, it’s your problem, not theirs.
- Stop talking during golf broadcasts. I am a paid professional, after all.
- Change your name to McCord. The dogs will still howl but they’ll be joined by the “Village People.”
I purchased a new set of irons last spring—boy is new technology great! Unfortunately, I’m in snow up over my knickers and it’s time to store them away. “The One Who Must Be Obeyed” is convinced that regular exposure of the clubs and bag to golf course pesticides and weed killers is not a healthy thing in the house. Personally, I would like to keep the clubs in the bedroom and HER in the garage! Oh Well, what about the clubs.—Gregg K., Parma, Ohio
Is that where that “Parma” ham comes from? I love that stuff on melons.
The truth is your wife spreads more germs than your clubs do; unless you’re picking your nose with your wedge all winter long. If it makes her feel any better, dip the boys in a beaker of Crown Royal Manhattans before you park them in the living room. When you’re done sterilizing them you have a delicious cocktail waiting for you. Hey your next kid might have a tail, but what the hell? My dad always says that, “As long as there are Indians in New Delhi going to bed sober, you should never waste a beer.” I’m betting your kids look like NFL linebackers when they leave the house to ride their bikes.
Considering the vast amount of money you get paid for sharing your profound and entertaining thoughts on golf, written or verbal, I’ve been wondering if you’ve ever kissed the Blarney Stone? —Serge, Saguenay, Quebec
Your getting to be a frequent correspondent, aren’t you, Serge? Things a little slow up there, old son?
To really understand this Blarney Stone phenomenon, you should know the legend is anyone, but particularly an Irishman, who lays a lip lock on the Blarney Stone, will be deeded with the “gift of gab.” It’s a nice concept, but it’s, well, blarney. What makes the Irish so brilliant with words, written or otherwise, is fear. Even Cromwell was reluctant to lop off the head of someone in mid-sentence. We figured if we could keep talking, the English would eventually give up and gallop off in frustration looking for someone a little less loquacious to impale.
But the real truth is I’m petrified of heights and that’s why I’ve never bussed the old boulder. The Blarney Stone is located in Blarney Castle in County Cork. The line is a half mile long and winds up the most claustrophobic four stories of decaying, shoulder scraping, wet, cold and miserable steps you’ve ever seen. As if that’s not enough fun, the castle is almost completely disintegrated. The roof is long gone and when you reach the top level where the stone is located, you have to circumnavigate the entire outside rim of the castle, inches from death. When you finally get to the damn thing, you have to lie down on your back and lean down into a hole with some iron bars to keep you from slithering head first to the rocks below. Two Irish gargoyles hold onto your legs and a couple of leprechauns snag the money that falls out of your pocket. Now for the magic moment; you’re upside down staring at a snot-encrusted rock. If you listen closely, you can hear the e-coli, dengue fever and other lovely viruses having a party.
No, I’ve never kissed the Blarney Stone.